Angel Hands (9 page)

The criminal investigation was, truth to tell, the only one that worried her. She leaned back in her chair and pressed her fingers to her temple.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes and slowly sat up. No one was in the room, but she was fairly certain she had heard something in the wall. Could have been a rat, she thought fleetingly. A very, big, black rat with a penchant for the melodramatic.

"I know you're there," she said flatly. "If you have something to say, then say it. Otherwise, go away."

Her eyes slid knowingly to the panel in the wall that she expected to slide open...and slide open it did, only to reveal Raymond stepping out of the secret passage and into her office.

"Raymond!" she exclaimed, jumping out of her chair.

"This is how he has spied on you, isn't it?" he replied softly, his eyes full of concern. "God, he disgusts me! How many hours has that blackguard spent watching you, eavesdropping?"

Panic rose like a bile in her throat, but she forced it back and drew a slow, deep breath. Instinctively, she knew that she had to stay in control of this situation—for the sake of Raymond, the ghost, the production...herself.

"Raymond, listen to me—"

"The filthy monster, creeping around this theater, probably leering at all the girls, maybe even the men, who knows! When I think of him trying to touch you, I swear I want to—"

"Raymond!"

Her sharp tone stopped him. She fixed him with her most serious look and summoned all her power to her small stature.

"Listen to me, Raymond. Listen very, very carefully. I want you to leave this matter of the ghost alone. It is not your concern."

"It is my concern when he tries to harm you!"

"Have you any proof?" Mireille asked scrambling to find some purchase in logic.

He looked taken aback and didn't answer.

"Has this ghost made any threats, attempted to extort money, or physically threatened any member of this company?"

"The...the costumes, the backdrops...the instruments...all damaged!"

Mireille smiled coldly, narrowing her eyes. "You know, as well as I do, that Pierre Buprès is an enterprising young lad. Given an assignment, he takes it perhaps too much to heart."

"You disappeared yesterday—and the times before that, Mireille." Raymond took a step closer to her, his hands clenched at his sides.

"You're not the only one who likes to explore. This is my opera house. I want to know it from top to bottom."

"And the noise from inside the wall, yesterday?"

"Rats."

"Rats?"

"Big, fat, black rats."

Raymond closed the distance between them and grasped her shoulders. Mireille forced herself not to move or flinch, and kept her eyes fixed on him.

"You know very well that I don't buy this nonsense that you're selling," he spluttered. "I'm going to go to the police straight away to get them to come in here, search the place, and get rid of this madman once and for all."

"There is no madman, Raymond."

"Yes, there is! The ghost is real!"

Mireille forced herself to laugh. "Have you seen him?" she asked teasingly.

"No, but—"

"Have you received any notes from him?"

"I don't—"

"Then, we are back to the old problem of proof. The
gendarmerie
won't believe you without proof, and there is no proof to be had because there is no ghost, or madman, or anyone of the kind, Raymond!" Mireille's words began to get heated in spite of herself.

"I have a witness."

"What? Impossible."

"Not impossible," Raymond said quietly, cupping her cheek with his hand. "I'm looking right at her."

He seemed startled at her outburst of laughter. She stepped out of his hold and went back to her desk and sat down, leaning back in her chair like an amused businessman.

"Yes, I would be a good witness if I had actually witnessed anything," she said, eyeing him levelly.

"You would lie to the police?"

"I wouldn't have to lie. There are no such things as ghosts, and no one—save the Vicomte de Chagnard and possibly Pierre Buprès—has created any problems for our production of
Don Juan
. End of story."

Raymond looked at her strangely, pressing his lips together in a thin line.

"No, not the end," he said finally. "Only the entr'acte."

He turned and walked out of her office. Mireille let out a deep breath and stretched in her chair. Her corset was pinching her, and she felt hot and itchy from both the wool of her grey dress and her temper.

She needed to speak to the ghost, to warn him, to tell him to watch his step, to...

"I've been called many things before, but fat is not one of them."

No matter how often he snuck up on her, she still started violently every time she heard his voice. At least, this time, she hadn't been holding anything. She refused to turn around in her chair to look at where the voice was coming from behind her.

"What do you mean?"

"I may be the big, black rat that lives in your walls, but I am not fat."

"I take it back. You are slender like a willow reed. There. Better? Now get out!"

A warm chuckle emanated from behind her chair and seemed to snake around to envelop her, curling into a coil of heat in the pit of her stomach.

"I will leave when my business is done."

"Oh, then this isn't just a social call? Fancy that."

She set her jaw and crossed her arms, watching out of the corner of her eye as he casually strode around her chair and came to sit on the edge of her desk, his long legs stretched out before him, one lazily resting on the other. It was an oddly informal pose for a man dressed with impeccable formality.

"I have come to tender my resignation."

"I'm sorry?" She stared at him blankly, not comprehending his words.

"I regret to inform you that I am resigning my position as opera-ghost-in-residence."

12. Of Routs and Reveries

"I regret to inform you that I am resigning my position as opera-ghost-in-residence."

A queer pang of something reverberated in her chest, but she steeled herself not to let it show.

"Oh?" was all she could manage to say without sounding deflated.

He smiled at her, and she clenched her hands into fists to avoid slapping him.

"The opera house is no longer my primary residence as of last night," he said.

"What?"

"You seem disappointed, Mireille."

"Thrilled, actually."

"Also, I will no longer be requiring your services as my business agent."

Her heart skipped a beat.

"I beg your pardon, but are you...firing...me?"

"Clever girl." He chuckled. She glared back at him.

"Does this mean you'll stop coming to my room at night to spy on me as well?" she demanded.

"Probably not."

"Damn."

"I think you're rather relieved."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I rarely do."

Mireille took a deep breath and launched her offensive.

"I take it that my artistic director's expeditions finally made you realize that you couldn't stay here?" she asked, letting her voice drip with sarcasm.

"Hardly."

"Then why the sudden departure?"

"That is my business."

"You're not planning to burn the place down during Act I again, are you?"

He stared impassively at her, making no answer. She could almost swear that she saw his jaw twitch slightly. After a moment, he stood up and walked back through the sliding panel in the wall, without a backwards look or a word goodbye.

Mireille sat staring at her desk after he had gone, chewing on her bottom lip. Perhaps she had offended him with her last statement, but then, hadn't he spent almost all of their acquaintance offending her? She felt she should be happy, finally unburdened by the ‘Opera Ghost.’ Raymond could go exploring as much as he liked now. He'd never find the ghost or any evidence that could prove his interference in the running of the theater. That was one problem solved.

So, why did she feel so forlorn all of a sudden? At least he would still come to her room and...and, what the hell was she thinking? Was she actually looking forward to the fact that he spied on her in her bedroom? That he invaded its sanctity every night while she slept? That she wanted to still have him in the orbit of her existence?

"
Bon Dieu
, I need a drink," she moaned, then shook her head and forced herself to get back to work. One problem of an Opera Ghost solved, two more of Carcasonne and an angry vicomte still to deal with.

***

Mireille was determined to stay awake. Lying in her bed, she kept her eyes closed and focused on making her breathing slow and even. Hoping she looked like she was sleeping, she waited, listening, with every fiber of her being, for some sound of him entering her room. She wanted to see him, to ask him more questions, to—and heavens knew, it was hard to think of saying this word to him, of all people—apologize, perhaps, for her words earlier.

It was difficult to stay awake with her eyes closed and the softness of her pillows underneath her head. Just as she was convinced she was drifting off, there was a telltale click of a latch on her window. She felt the night air rush in and brush her skin, cooling it and raising goose bumps.

"You're awake, Mireille," she heard him growl.

Her eyes flew open at the sound of his voice, and she saw him standing at the foot of her bed. He wore a black coat and pants, as always, but no vest, and his shirt was open at the collar—probably better for climbing and window acrobatics, she thought absently.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his finger in a warning gesture. So, she settled for glaring at him and waiting for him to speak. She was expecting words from him, not the sudden ripping away of the blankets to expose her legs and bare feet. Before she could pull down hem of her prim nightgown, he was on top of her, braced on his hands and knees, his face inches from hers.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, trying to remember why she should be objecting, when every nerve in her body was aching for more of him.

His answer was a hard, angry kiss, his tongue plunging into her mouth and stealing her breath. He pressed his body down against hers, and she could feel the hardness of his muscles and his heat through the thin fabric that covered her. His hands grasped her wrists and pinned them above her head as he ravished her mouth and neck with kisses.

Somehow, without her knowing exactly how, his coat and shirt came off. Somehow, her hands were running over the hot skin of his back. Somehow, his hands found all the curves of her body. Somehow, her legs wound themselves around his. Somehow, he had ripped open the front of her nightgown to expose her to his bites and kisses.

There were no sounds except their mingled breathing and gasps, and the writhing of bodies against cotton sheets. She could feel the delirious pressure building up between her legs as he caressed her, his hands finally, hungrily grabbing the edge of her gown and hiking it up to her waist.

This was it. This is what she had secretly wanted. No more barriers, no more games. Only the most primal, intense love-making between two bodies in heat.

She gasped loudly as her pleasure exploded when he touched her for the first time between her legs. Her eyes flew open, and she grabbed at the sheets. The ebbing waves of pleasure gave rise to confusion. Where was he? He was just there, in her bed, on top of her...or...was he...wasn't he...

In a daze, Mireille sat up, details falling into place in the early morning light. She was still covered by blankets, her nightgown wasn't ripped. The window was securely latched closed. There was no rose on her pillow.

He hadn't come. He hadn't been there at all.

Damn!

13. Of Days and Dahlèns

"There is no such thing as a 'tactical headache,'" Mireille fumed, crumpling the piece of paper and throwing it into the orchestra pit where it hit the second violinist on the nose. "She is Aminta. She knows we are two days away from the performance. There is no excuse for missing rehearsal!"

Her temper was edging out control, despite her every effort not to take it out inappropriately on her staff...even on Raymond.

Ever since the day he discovered the secret passages, Raymond had been quiet and watchful, focused on Mireille with an unspoken intensity that was fraying her nerves. To top it off, she was secretly afraid she was becoming obsessed with the disappearance of her ghost. True to his word, he had stopped haunting the opera house—or at least visibly haunting it. Nor did he seem to want to resume his visits to her bedroom at night. She shouldn't have minded. But, she did. It was as if he had gotten the last word in a war that had only just begun.

"Mireille, look, this will be a good chance for our understudy to get some practice," Raymond pleaded. "Solange knows her part. La Giuliana will be here for the dress rehearsal tomorrow. I have personally worked with Solange, and I know that she not only has the talent to sing Aminta, but also the dramatic flair to-"

"Piss off, Raymond!" she snapped, unable to bear his driveling droning any more. "We'll use Solange for now. Where is Pierre? Where is that bloody boy? There you are. You go to La Guiliana's flat and tell her that either she comes to rehearsal right now, or she can kiss her contract goodbye."

Several of the nearby cast members raised their eyebrows at this harsh treatment, but they said nothing.

“One dire warning to be delivered right away, Mademoiselle Dubienne,” Pierre said, grinning cheekily at her before he scampered off.

Rehearsal settled into its bumpy progress with Raymond directing the doe-eyed Solange. Mireille huddled in a seat in the back of the theater, watching and thinking fell thoughts of young prima donnas, lawsuits, and ghosts.